


The Finest Form of Architecture

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Incest, M/M, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s all about proportions... (Pre-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Finest Form of Architecture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HalfshellVenus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfshellVenus/gifts).



> Written (long ago) for Halfshellvenus’ birthday.

His hand slid down the bulge of the deltoideus, followed the plane of the latissimus dorsi and reached the crown of the gluteus medius. The skin under his palm was soft and warm the way it can only be in the morning after a pleasant night of sleep, the muscles developed in just the right manner and slightly rolling and shifting beneath his exploration. Michael bent forward and pressed a kiss in the deliciously defined hollow between the trapezius muscles. The _us_ -words were rolling down his tongue and falling from his lips in low whispers as his hands were brushing over the named muscles. A sharp profile on the white pillow case, Lincoln half-smiled at the enumeration.

“I thought you were studying architecture or engineering, or something like that,” he pointed out. “Not anatomy.”

His voice was as rough as the skin and muscles of his back were smooth. The contrast held dozens of promises, all of them making Michael shiver in arousal. He rose a bit on his knees and towered over the body neatly tucked between his thighs. _Bridge above an untamed river_ came to his mind.

“I am,” he said distractedly, taking in the sight displayed just for his appreciation. “This is merely a different form of architecture.”

The finest form of architecture. The sturdy line of the shoulders, the flawless trapeze of the back where tendons jutted and triangles of muscles seamlessly fit into each other, the narrow square of the hips and the masculine roundness of the buttocks... Finest, strongest, subtlest piece of art. Michael wanted to kneel above Lincoln and admire all this even more than he wanted to touch, kiss and taste it. For now, at least.

“Is it? I thought it was you perving on me. In Latin. Weirdest dirty talk I’ve ever heard, man.”

Michael ignored the teasing. “It’s all about proportions. A perfectly erected...” A quick glance at Lincoln’s smirking lips and he corrected right away “A perfectly conceived building. A perfectly built body. Same difference. Proportions.”

Lincoln moved under him; he rolled his spine and pushed his butt up, rubbing against Michael. To stick with the architecture gig, Michael mused, the contact definitely had its advantages over marble or whatever noble material he usually enjoyed touching.

“You’re just rationalizing the fact that you want my cock,” Lincoln said crudely. “Perfection is in the eye of the beholder.”

Michael wanted to discuss and challenge this, tell Lincoln that perfection – this kind of perfection, anyway – was mathematical, and mathematics were objective, not subjective, but his brother was ordering him to lie down on him, chest to back, and any coherent thought flew out of his mind. He complied, leaning down slowly to relish every second of it, savor every square inch of flesh touching flesh. Eventually, he felt them, all of them, the muscles and triangles, squares and sinews pressed into his own body, pushing against him with every labored in-take of air from Lincoln. 

In this position, his erection was half pressed between them, half nestled in the hot crease between Lincoln’s buttocks – _gluteus maximus_ , Michael thought with a hint of self-directed sarcasm – its length lightly squeezed and massaged by the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of the muscles Lincoln was subjecting him to. He moaned and ground down, a broken “Oh, God...” escaping from his mouth and ending, warm and moist, against the side of Lincoln’s neck.

Linc’s forearms were half hidden under the pillow. Michael reached for them to hold onto, fingers digging into the flesh and nails biting into the skin as his whole body was moving, rising and falling above Lincoln’s.

Proportions. Lincoln had everything in the right ones. From the smoldering temperature of his skin and the elastic firmness of his muscles to the cadence of his squeezing-massaging and the blend of affectionate and dirty in his voice when he told Michael to _let it go, come for him, just fucking come on him_.

Michael lost it sometime between the first and the second command, and he was biting into the junction of Lincoln’s neck and shoulder – whatever its damn scientific name was – by the third one. Eyes shut, hips moving on their own volition and chest rubbing onto the perfection of Lincoln’s back.

It took Lincoln dislodging him, kindly enough but resolutely, for Michael to open his eyes and emerge from his post-release bliss. Linc was lying on his side, his head resting on his close fist; he was looking at him with a leer. A living and mesmerizing wall of muscles, pulsing blood and sweat, both protecting Michael from whatever he needed protection against and threatening to fall upon him – and God knew what would happen then. Michael could tell that his brother waited to have his rapt attention before he rolled onto his back. He laid there on display and satisfied with himself, slightly out of breath, an arm tucked under his head, and fully erect.

Michael licked his lips and shifted in the bed, leaning over Lincoln’s offered body. His mouth and hand were already straying down, aiming for the column of hard flesh; Lincoln stopped them dead in their track as they had already reached his navel.

“Wow, not so fast, Michelangelo,” he said, face stony and eyes too dark for Michael’s sanity of mind. “Show me what you know about chest and stomach muscles.”

With a grin, Michael moved up; he started at the platysma.

-End-


End file.
